


Loaded

by Porkchop_Sandwiches



Category: Breaking Bad
Genre: Drug Withdrawal, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, season 5
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-26
Updated: 2014-07-26
Packaged: 2018-02-10 13:19:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2026563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Porkchop_Sandwiches/pseuds/Porkchop_Sandwiches
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everything's loaded.</p><p>Mr. White takes Jesse to a baseball game. Set after Season 4, Episode 5 "Shotgun."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Loaded

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place almost right after "Shotgun" and it's pretty canon up to the beginning of my story except I changed one thing about Walter and Skyler's interaction from earlier in the episode. The team names "White Sands Pupfish" and "Las Vegas Train Robbers" are actually real.

Jesse’s entire ass is asleep. His fingers are hella freezing. And, this is like the lamest thing he’s agreed to in probably like ever or something.

A sharp _thwack_ echoes over the sound of all the other dumbasses at this baseball game. Jesse’s pretty sure no legit, real, normal person has even heard of the White Sands Pupfish. Because who in the hell follows whatever league this shit is anyway? Apparently about two hundred or so people from what Jesse can kind of make out from the nosebleed section. His aisle is totally empty. A Mexican family’s sitting six or so rows over in matching fish logo hats. Then there’s like a fat dude in sweats in front of them, and to his other side is a group of younger guys in hoodies messing around on their phones, yelling shit like “penis” and then laughing about it. _Shit_ , they probably have weed.

Jesse adjusts the beanie on his head because he needs to do something with his fucking fingers and Mr. White’s been gone for beer for like twenty minutes and he’d probably do some pretty messed up shit to score some weed off those kids, even it is just some skunk junior high shit. But, he’s been clean for like 57 hours or so, and he’s kind of sure he wants to stay that way. Plus, Mike would be able to tell. He’s like that creepy-ass, dead-eyed fortune teller machine in _Big_ , like the guy knows everything.

“Son of a bitch,” Jesse says.

Yeah, he’s talking out loud to himself, but _holy shit_ , they’re playing the same damn Black Eyed Peas song again. Why the hell did he agree to this? He’d spent almost the whole day riding around in a car with one old dude, and for some reason decided, sure, why not sit in Mr. White’s car for an hour to watch two teams he’s never heard of play a game he doesn’t really like. It was just like…freaky or something the way Mr. White seemed so worried about him being gone for the day. He actually asked if he was okay, wanted to know what happened, didn’t even like call him a fuckup or anything. If Jesse made a habit of thinking dumb shit, he’d say Mr. White cared about him.

“We don’t have to talk about work, _Jesse_. This isn’t about the business.” He mutters Mr. White’s words to himself, pitching them a little higher than necessary, making faces because what the hell was even up with Mr. White today? He’d said that like three times on the freeway on the way to the game with his Led Zeppelin CD on that Jesse didn’t exactly hate and his hand clapping him on the shoulder every once and a while. Mr. White had said he’d bought the tickets kind of last minute because he thought they could use some time outside the city, like a break, some breathing room to unwind or something. He kept repeating his name too, like “Jesse, do you need to stop for anything?” and “Have you eaten today, Jesse?” and “Jesse, is the heat at a comfortable level?”

He tugs this ugly ass blanket higher up his shoulders. Mr. White handed it to him in the parking lot, and even though the things like orange and brown and lame, it’s keeping him warm.

“Don’t look now, but I think a crotchety elderly woman has stolen your seat.”

Jesse jerks his head over to Mr. White, standing in his khaki jacket with two tallboys of Sam Addams, looking smug as shit. But, Jesse was just muttering under his breath, and he is wrapped up in a fucking quilt. So, like he’ll give Mr. White this one…kind of.

“Yo, go to hell,” he says. It’s kind of a shoddy delivery, no kick it to it because it’s like the sixth inning and he’s pretty dead after today.

Mr. White just laughs, sits down, and offers Jesse a beer.

Jesse shakes his head. “Nah, man. I’m good.”

“You sure? One of these is for you.” He lifts one, drinking from the other.

Jesse’s pretty sure Mr. White’s had at least seven of those, and he’s thinking he might have to drive once this shit’s finally over. The last time he was around this much booze, he was sprawled across his couch with like four tweakers beating the shit out each other. It smells pretty good.

He shakes his head again. “I’m trying to like stay clean and shit. I know it’s just a beer or whatever, but, uh, I don’t really want to mess with that, you know, just in case.”

Mr. White nods with so much understanding, soft eyes and all, that it’s the weirdest, like most eerie shit he’s done since they got here. “I’m glad to hear that, Jesse. I truly am.”

He pats his arm through the blanket, and Jesse knocks his hand off, shaking his upper body violently like he’s a box of candy with a big wad of Mike and Ikes stuck at the bottom. “Yo, stop touching me.”

Mr. White does this amused, put-out face, almost kind of like a palling around thing that just looks straight-up weird.

“Alright, relax. No need get agitated,” he says. He leans over to set down his unopened beer and takes a long sip from the one still in his hand. “Are you feeling alright? You’re looking a little…wilted.”

Jesse’s not sure how he can look “wilted,” because it sounds like a way a chick would describe like a flower or some shit. But, that Mexican hat-club family’s standing up to do the wave and _shit, people still do the wave,_ and he’s not really sure about anything right now.

He shrugs, sucks at his teeth. “I don’t know, I was pretty wired earlier. Maybe after saving Mike’s ass and then, like time passing or whatever, that uh, that shit’s starting to wear off. You know the stuff that makes people lift buses and they put it in like allergy pens and…”

“Adrenaline,” Mr. White says. He’s watching the game again, thumbing the tab kind of along with the song on that god-awful organ.

“Yeah, adrenaline,” Jesse says. “I think I’m kind of tapped out. It got pretty intense today, like those guys in the alley were gonna jack Mike’s money if I didn’t think of something. I just jumped in the driver’s seat, slammed into their car, and got out of there. I didn’t even pick up Mike until like a half hour later ‘cause I didn’t want those guys following me. Fring would’ve been pissed if we lost any of those drops, you know.”

He doesn’t say it as a question really, just kind of says it, and he’s ready for no response, just going back to watching whatever team’s up to the plate. Next to a Pollos Hermanos banner, the score board blinks “Las Vegas Train Robbers,” and that’s a pretty dope team name. Whoever this is playing for the Train Robbers hits another foul.

Mr. White nudges his knee against his. “Good, Jesse.”

Jesse swears his damn gut flinches. This is some Freddy Krueger-level terrifying shit. But, also something about those two words gets too much blood flowing to like shit it shouldn’t be flowing to. He shifts in his seat.

“Yo, Mr. White. How’s…uh, how’s your wife doing?”

Jesse never asks about Mr. White’s family, but it feels like some shit guys would talk about over like nachos or whatever at a baseball game. Mr. White’s frowning though, so maybe Jesse’s wrong.

He starts to say something, scowling when those high school guys shuffle out while screaming random shit and cracking up. After a couple of sips of his beer, he rolls his eyes. “In a nut shell, she’s convinced me to launder my money in a car wash business that I had no intention of purchasing, she hates me, and she may or may not be still sleeping with her boss. Oh, yeah, and she kind of…rejected…my advances earlier today. So, she’s terrific.”

He’s way more honest than Jesse’s expecting, and Jesse has no clue what to say. Nodding like an idiot, he chews on his lip. “That blows, yo.”

Mr. White chuckles. “Well said, Jesse. Well said.”

“Whatever, man,” Jesse says. But like, he knows he’s smiling too a little. “I’m no expert or anything at comforting people and shit.”

Another hand is on his shoulder, and it takes him a second to realize this isn’t Mr. White. Some blonde chick with purple gages and a silver hoop in her lip with like a red uniform and some sort of cart with wheels is looking down at him, smiling, tits kind of like in his face.

“Excuse me. Would you like a hot dog? We’re about to close down for the night.”

“Oh, um, yeah,” he says. He’s scrambling around for his wallet, but the blanket’s twisting him up pretty bad, and he might die right now because he looks like he’s in one of those cat videos Brock watches on YouTube. And, he’s the cat.

She’s laughing. “No worries. It’s on the house.”

She bends over to her cart-thing, like a cooler, and fishes out two silver packages. He’s finally able to untangle himself enough to hike up his sleeves so he doesn’t get any mustard on his jacket.

When she hands over the food, she’s way closer than like necessary or whatever, eying his dragon tattoo like she wants to eat it. “You know, you don’t really seem like the kind of guy who watches baseball. You doing anything after this?”

Jesse honestly can’t tell if he should be flattered or not, because this chick’s easily a nine, but he also reeks of meth and there’s no way she can’t smell that shit. “I don’t really got any plans, probably gonna like head home ‘cause I live pretty far and….”

“Yeah, traffic is gonna be a total clusterbitch,” she says. “But, there’s still a couple more innings, so, you know, I might bump into you by the pretzel cart or like the line to the bathroom. There’s actually a restroom to the right of this section that’s like always mega dead, in case, you wanted to know. It’s like totally empty.”

She is for sure flashing him like down to fuck eyes, but that tubby dude in the sweats starts snapping his fingers, saying, “Miss” a ton. She’s still smiling at him with her cart clunking behind her.

Peeling back the wrapper, he takes a huge bite and tries to focus back on the game. It takes him less than a second to notice Mr. White’s smirking.

“Yo, what are you looking at?” Jesse frowns.

He makes a show out of raising his shoulders. “Me? I’m not the one who is…what's the term, cock-blocking myself? I mean, that girl was clearly interested.”

“Yeah, Mr. White, I _know_.” He lowers his voice even though the chick’s long gone. “And I _know_ an addict when I see one.”

Mr. White squints. “What does that have to do with anything? You think just because she _might_ look a drug addict, she has any motive other than rattling a stall door with you in that ‘totally empty’ restroom?”

“I do when I stink like the Willy Wonka Factory of crystal. Shit, Mr. White, I’m not like as much of an idiot as you think.”

Something’s un-fucking-settling about the way Mr. White stares at him, like he’s sad or some shit. Jesse likes to think he’s even going to say sorry, maybe say something like “Of course not, Jesse. You’re not an idiot.” He doesn’t say anything at all.

About half an inning later with a guy on the home team on first base, looking like he wants to steal second, Mr. White bumps his knee cap into Jesse again.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you _this_ silent before. Who knew that all it took to get you to shut up was a couple of hot dogs loaded in your mouth?” He smiles, drinking from the second can.

“Dick,” Jesse says. It’s pretty muffled by a bite of bun and ketchup, but whatever.

Mr. White makes this fake concentrated expression. “Oh, is that right? Dick in your mouth shuts you up too?”

 _Holymotherfuckingshit_ , Jesse’s not ready for that. And maybe just out of shock, he’s not just choking but _laughing_ too. Like he’s laughing so hard, Mr. White has to smack him on the back until Jesse waves him off and starts to breath like Darth Vader before he starts to sound like a human again. A cigarette sounds pretty dope right about now.

“Yo, can I smoke here?”

Mr. White chugs the rest of his drink, crushing the aluminum in his fist like the frat guys Jesse’s seen in late-afternoon shitty movies on cable. His face is sort of red, and he’s weaving a little. “I see no reason why not. We’re outside. I’m going to get another beer. You want anything, Jesse?”

“Nah,” he says. Jesse can feel some mustard on the corner of his lips, and licks it off. Maybe it’s just the way the stadium lights are hitting Mr. White’s glasses, but it kind of looks like Mr. White’s pretty interested in Jesse’s mouth. Kind of like Jesse caught him tracking the movement of his tongue running over his bottom lip.

Mr. White stands up, takes kind of a wrong step or something and clamps a hand onto Jesse’s upper arm for balance. He doesn’t look embarrassed or anything just pats him and keeps going. Just like everything about tonight, it’s weird as hell.

Jesse pulls out his pack of Wilmington’s and lighter, gets one started, and shoves the stuff pack in his pocket. He tried not to look at the ricin, but it’s kind of hard to forget you’re carrying around motherfucking poison. That song is playing by that new blonde chick with the weird bangs and blue jumpsuit and she’s talking about poker faces. Badger had like watched that music video five times in a row after doing a couple lines and then super loudly announced to everyone that he wanted to screw this chick. Everyone around Jesse is gone. He’s up in the nosebleed section totally by himself.

He takes a drag off his cigarette and tries not to let his train of like thought go from poison to death to Gale faster than his dick can like respond to shit like “good job, Jesse” in a low, grizzly voice that he may have thought about with his hand around himself when he’s jerked awake from dreams he would never tell anyone about ever. His name’s always tagged on the end, like a warning of calloused hands, and the scruff of a goatee, and a mouth bigger than he’s used to, kissing the life right out of him. Because with everything turned to shit, Jesse finds some twisted sliver of like decent feelings dreaming about that tongue pressing against his lower lip, forcing him and letting him lead in the same trembling breath.

Something like curdles in his stomach, and he drops his only half-smoked cigarette to cover himself in the blanket again. It’s freakishly cold out and withdrawal always like drops his body temperature. He feels sick.

Mr. White’s back this time way sooner, plopping down pretty heavy in his seat with his can already open. It’s a Bud this time.

“What did I miss?”

“I’ve no idea,” Jesse says. He takes a deeper breath because his vision’s getting all wobbly, and _fuck,_ he’s thinking about Gale.

Mr. White’s voice sounds kind of echo-y even when he slides his hand across the back of Jesse’s neck. His fingers start to move, like he’s rubbing the muscles and stuff there, and like it doesn’t exactly feel shitty. “Jesse, can you hear me?”

“Y-yeah,” Jesse says. The next breath he takes almost hurts. _Shit_ , he realizes he’s kind of crying. He tries to wipe at his face, but he’s sitting on one side of the blanket and the other is tucked under Mr. White’s elbow on the armrest.

“Jesse, what is it?

 _No_ , Mr. White like _can’t_ use that voice, like not now. Not that low, warm-sounding shit that reminds Jesse of a scalding shower he wants to stand under until his skin welts up because he like deserves it, like ‘cause it hurts, and like it’d feel good too, really good.

“Jesse, do you want to talk about it?”

Jesse shakes his head, relieved his eyes aren’t watering up as much and that there’s no one else seeing this. Mr. White’s grip is right below his skull, working on something that’s like dulling his headache, and he shuts his eyes.

“Is this about…about….” Mr. White sighs. He’s silent for a long time, like long enough for two more songs to play, including the one that says “hey” a lot by the guy who like got in trouble for touching little kids. “Look, I, I’m not happy with the way things happened. But, in light…of our…circumstances, I’m glad you did what you did. I’m alive because of it, right? And even if I’ve been acting like it, know that I haven’t in the least forgotten that, Jesse. I haven’t.”

If Jesse adds a few more letters and shit, it would sort have sounded like an actual like apology, and he’s pretty okay with what he got. He’s thinking about it so much, it takes him longer than normal to notice Mr. White’s palm flat and weighted on his thigh under the blanket. He tries to shuck the material off himself, but like he’s pinned in. He’s like a cat again, except this time it’s like he’s about to get a pill shoved down his throat and he’s like smothered in a blanket so he doesn’t claw everyone and everything around him.

With his shoulders still struggling, Jesse shoots his eyes open.

Mr. White looks like he’s writing down product measurements in the lab, like totally neutral and shit, and Jesse can barely make out his eyes with the florescent reflection off his glasses. His face comes just a little closer. “It’s okay,” he says. “It’s okay.”

“Nah, Mr. White. Uh, like….” Jesse makes this kind of quiet strangled sound because Mr. White’s hand is right over his crotch.

And even though he feels nauseous, somehow sweaty, and scared as shit, he can’t cover up the fact that he’s hard, really hard.

“Good, Jesse. That’s good.” Mr. White rubs over the fly of Jesse’s jeans before he starts tugging the zipper down.

People are cheering a few stories below and Mr. White turns to face the field again as his hand slips into Jesse’s boxers. He’s like instantly grabbing him, stroking him at a nice, steady pace because Jesse knows he’s already slick enough that friction isn’t an issue. Mr. White is just as rough as Jesse’s imaged, tugging on him harder than Jesse normally would, pausing every once and a while to squeeze the base or rub his heel into his balls.

Jesse doesn’t really like that he likes this, but he does, and he’s being kind of loud about it. His teeth might be dug into his bottom lip, but that doesn’t stop him from moaning and fucking _whimpering_ like some bitch at every twist of Mr. White’s wrist. But, like the guy knows what he’s doing.

It’s also hella crazy that Jesse isn’t thinking about like Andrea or that blond lip ring chick or hell, somebody, _anybody_ with tits.

“Mmm,” Jesse says. He feels a finger pressed tight right behind his balls. “Mr. White.”

“Yes?” he says, glancing over.

Jesse thinks this is when he should just shut up, like Mr. White thought he wanted to actually ask him a question, not that he’s just moaning the dude’s name. But, Jesse’s too close with a mouth too big for that kind of shit.

“Mr. White,” he says. “Shit, Mr. White. I’m gonna….”

“Yeah, Jesse.” He’s talking to the empty air in front of him, like he’s watching the game. “Come on, that’s it. That’s good.”

And with a final, humiliatingly whispered, throaty _Mr. White_ , he’s hit a grand slam, coming apart like an unraveling baseball.

Mr. White handles him gently for a few seconds until Jesse’s hips stop shoving into his fist, and he doesn’t even know when that started. Pulling away, Mr. White kind of inspects his opened hand before wiping it on the front of the quilt.

Jesse scrunches his nose because that’s pretty rank.

Mr. White smiles at him, looking a little drunk. “Nothing to worry about. It’s Skyler’s.”

“Yo, Mr. White, that’s messed up.” Jesse shakes his head, smirking. “It’s kind of funny, but really messed up.”

Mr. White laughs, and the game’s over. The Train Robbers won. So, Jesse reaches for the car keys, and Mr. White freezes up. Yeah, they’re still in Mr. White’s pocket. But, like so what? Jesse has to drive home.

“We got like an hour in the car,” Jesse says. “And apparently traffic’s gonna be a total clusterbitch.”    

Jesse’s fingers toy with the fabric inside the pocket. “You ready?”


End file.
